I am the Walrus

Artik and the gang materialized outside a hotel in The Big Apple, "Swanky!" he whistled. "Oh, excuse me," he said, bumping into a man. "Wait... Bob Dylan?"

"Yeah, man. It's all good." He smiled, and patted the abnormally tall and orange Artik on the back.

Artik said, "Sorry, sir," and threw him into his satchel. Artik morphed into Dylan. "Rightie ho!" Artik gestured Cyril into the lobby.

Cyril decided that he would throw all caution to the wind and walk into a hotel in New York as a feline alien species. So he did.

Makoto snapped Bob Dylan's neck. "It might be early but he died anyway."

Artik was about to revive Bob Dylan, until he burst into dust and blew away. Artik blinked, "Bob Dylan is Rick Astley?" He shrugged and made sure he looked all Dylaned up. He strode into the lobby, winking at the hotel patrons. The desk manager blinked.
Artik muttered something about the injustice of the Vietnam war, and the manager shrugged.

Bob stuffed his friends in an elevator and they ascended to the right floor. Artik checked the time, "Good." He smiled, "Right on time." He knocked on the door and a somewhat young man opened the door. "Bobby," he cheered.

Bob Dylan hugged him. "Hi, Al. Al Aronowitz," he introduced him to his friends. "Cyril, Makoto."

Al stepped out of the way and a noticeably tense man shook Bob's hand. "Mr. Dylan, a real honor," he said, all Britishly.

Artik shook his hand back. "Lovely to meet you, Brian. Brian Epstein," he told Makoto and Cyril.
Bob shook another man's hand, "Mal Evans, hello! Could you get us some cheap wine?"

Mal left the room quickly. Bob set about locking the room and drawing the curtains.

John finally stood and shook Dylan's hand, "Real bloody fucking honor, man!"

The other three nodded. Artik chuckled, "No. The honor's mine."

Artik jumped into his satchel, TARDISed off, returned immediately, and jumped out his satchel. "Right," he said, noticing the jaws hanging about in the room, "Sorry. Had to pop into Cyril's place," he explained.

Bob smiled, looking especially at John and Paul, "Would you like a smoke? Mal won't return for a while."

The Beatles and Brian blushed, and John said, "We... Haven't actually tried pot."

Artik blinked. "Right. But... What about that song? The one about..."

"What song," Paul asked.

Artik blinked, "You know... 'And when I touch you, I get high, I get high, I get hiiiggghhh.'"

John shook his head, flushed profusely, "It's, 'I can't hide'."

Artik laughed, producing a large bag of marijuana from his satchel. Artik rolled a joint, and handed it to John.

John, looking it over, handed it to Ringo, calling him, "My Royal Taste-tester."

Ringo lit it and, not understanding ettiquete, did not pass it about, smoking the whole thing.

Bob laughed and explained it, rolling another, with Al doing a second. Artik took the first puff and passed it to John again. He passed it to George, to Brian, to Al, to Cyril.

Bob got up to check who was knocking. Knowing it was Mal, he quickly unlocked and let him in, locking it back.

Makoto, who was never really a fan of the Beatles, put on a Rolling Stones shirt.

Cyril wondered why this had suddenly turned into a... a... a... a whatever you call it. Cyril's tail swished anxiously. She was ready to get the pleasantries over. Cyril smiled and nodded as the introductions were given. She declined the random joint.

Artik waited until Brian said something about being up to the ceiling before shrugging, and turning into himself, flowing crimson robes and all.

Paul was trying to find a pencil and paper; eventually, Mal Evans produced one and was tasked with falling him about, writing whatever he says. "I... can see, man. Like, properly see. It's so clear! There are seven levels!"

George and Ringo were talking about mystical submarines amd evil taxmen.

Lennon blinked at Artik, "Woah! Guys, shut your fucking mouths. It's the Sun King!"

Artik decided it was pointless to ask if they'd seen him before. Getting to the point, "Have I ever met a walrus?"

"I am the walrus," Paul cheered.

Artik stared at McCartney. "The Walrus was Paul. Right. But what the hell does that mean?"

Lennon blinked, "Paul is dead? No! No. That isn't... It won't mean anything. I'll write it to confuse the bastards that try and dissect my shit."

Artik was amazed. He had heard that certain strains of Lunar Marijuana allowed the user to see into your own future, but this was terrific. After the high, they'd forget all about it. Artik was a time traveler, so it wouldn't affect him. "Which ocean?"

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, all good children go to Heaven," George muttered.

Upon this, Lennon sang, dead-voiced and dramatic, "Imagine there's no Heaven. It's easy if you try."

Artik blinked. "What? So, there's a hole in Heaven's ocean, and it'll cause a catastrophe? Bloody great." He paused, "No. No! In the ocean, we have to fix a hole. Some sort of hole. Not a hole. That'd be stupid..." He scratched his head, "Fixing a hole, in the ocean. But... it is a whole! But that isn't the point. A whole in the ocean. Fixing a whole in the oce... for fuck's sake! A whole number." Artik thanked the Beatles and Brian and all. He took the drugs and stuffed them in his satchel. "We need to go," he told his friends, "Immediately."

Makoto was glad this was over.

Cyril whistled and his glowing-cloud-ship-thing consumed our heroes and took them to Heaven. It was very serious and dramatic.